Zibeline — Volume 3 eBook

“Are you leaving me so soon?” Valentine
murmured, when he said that he must go.

“I am going to tell my sister and the Chevalier
de Sainte-Foy of your mishap.”

“Very well,” she replied, as if already
she had no other desire than to follow his wishes.

He gave the necessary orders, and again took his place
beside the bed, awaiting the second visit of the doctor,
whose arrival was simultaneous with that of the Duchess.

This time the verdict was altogether favorable, with
no mention of the possibility of any aggravating circumstances.
An inevitable feverishness, and a great lassitude,
which must be met with absolute repose for several
days, would be the only consequences of this dangerous
prank.

The proprieties resumed their normal sway, and it
was no longer possible for Henri to remain beside
the charming invalid.

CHAPTER XXVII

DISTRACTION

The Duchesse de Montgeron, who had passed the rest
of the day with Mademoiselle de Vermont, did not return
to her own dwelling until eight o’clock that
evening, bearing the most reassuring news.

Longing for fresh air and exercise, Henri went out
after dinner, walked through the Champs-Elysees, and
traversed the crossing at l’Etoile, in order
to approach the spot where Zibeline lay ill.

If one can imagine the feelings of a man of forty-five,
who is loved for himself, under the most flattering
and unexpected conditions, one can comprehend the
object of this nocturnal walk and the long pause that
Henri made beneath the windows of Zibeline’s
apartment. A small garden, protected by a light
fence, was the only obstacle that separated them.
But how much more insuperable was the barrier which
his own principles had raised between this adorable
girl and himself.

Had he not told his sister, confided to Eugenie Gontier,
and reiterated to any one that would listen to him,
the scruples which forbade him ever to think of marriage?
To change this decision, in asking for the hand of
Mademoiselle de Vermont, would-in appearance, at least—­sacrifice
to the allurement of wealth the proud poverty which
he had long borne so nobly.

But the demon of temptation was then, as always, lurking
in the shadow, the sole witness of this duel to the
death between prejudice and love.

When he returned to his rooms he found another note
from his former mistress:

“You have just had a terrible
experience, my dear friend. Nothing that
affects you can be indifferent to me. I beg you
to believe, notwithstanding the grief which our
separation causes me, in all the prayers that
I offer for your happiness.

“Ariadne.”

“My happiness? My torture, rather!”
he said, the classic name of Ariadne suggesting the
idea that the pseudonym of Tantalus might well be
applied to himself.